


the moon, also, is merciless

by potter



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, F/F, Hate Sex, Masturbation, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 20:31:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14480640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potter/pseuds/potter
Summary: Sarah wants to let her body be stripped for parts until she’s strewn across the floor, a collection of limbs and bone no one could ever have a hope of reconstructing into Sarah Manning. Wants to let Rachel sell her for parts, or mount her femur on the wall, or string a wire through her spine and set her on her knee, tugging Sarah’s jaw open and shut with such a passable impression you would never guess those aren’t Sarah’s eyes looking out beyond the audience.Rachel would never, she knows, because Rachel would never dream of giving Sarah anything she wants.





	the moon, also, is merciless

Kira still won’t talk to her, let alone share the same bed. S offers her her own, but Sarah can all but hear Fe’s disapproving sigh, and when she banishes herself to the living room it’s with a smile. For all that it’s uncomfortable, the couch really isn’t that bad. And besides, it’s the first time Sarah’s been alone in - ages, really. Between being dead and being on the run and being the labrat in some wrinkly old ballsack’s hell-prison, she’s spent the last year trying to hold other people as close as she can, never mind the crowding as long as they don’t slip her by. 

But they’re in a holding pattern, now. The leash has been taken from her hand, and while she refuses to acknowledge the collar wrapped around her throat she can’t deny its weight. She would strain at it, if she could, but she knows she wouldn’t be the only one left choking. 

And so Sarah tries for stillness. 

The quiet is low and thin throughout the house. She can hear nearly everything, from Kira’s wheezing cough to S’s gentle snoring. It’s not a safe silence - Sarah’s not sure if those exist anymore - but it’s enough to relax her shoulders. There’s a gun beneath the couch; there’s a knife on the windowsill. There’s silence at the threshold, at least for now. Sarah breathes in. Sarah breathes out. 

It’s deliberate, when her hand drifts down - the action, if not the thought. She spent most of her adolescence elbowing Fe back to his side of the bed or curling up in the back of second-hand trucks. She learned quickly, once she was of a certain age, to take these silences for what they are: an opportunity. It’s muscle memory which has her knuckle kneading the front of her jeans. She’s not wearing anything underneath, and it’s a dull little pain, denim on flesh, but she likes it, mostly. 

She wants, as always, a little more, but she can’t exactly ride a vibrator with her ex-IRA “shoot first, ask questions never” mum snoring one floor up. It’s frustrating, but Sarah’s used to frustration. She shifts her hips down a little, tries to ride the friction, and - oh. Oh. 

She isn't wet yet, but it’s getting there fast. It’s been weeks, months, since she properly touched herself, since she was properly touched. There’s a full moon, and it floods the room with a ghastly, spoilt-milk white. There’s poetry in there somewhere, but Sarah took remedial English; the closest she ever got to verse was Romeo + Juliet (and she’s pretty sure she skipped that week). But in the silence, in the pale night, everything is… magnified, so that it’s a clap of thunder, the sharp inhale when she strokes down the side of her clit. Gets her close, but not enough. She’s always liked it like that, though - close to perfect, but not enough to disappoint. 

Sarah closes her eyes. Floats in the dark for a while, lets the world shrink to the hot knife burn deep between her thighs. She drags three fingers up and down and up her jeans seam, runs her tongue over and across and over her bottom lip. She presses a hand over her sternum, trying to imagine a weight there, a shapeless figure draped across her body, pressing phantom bruises against her ribs. 

Flashes - long red curls, drugstore cologne, sweet berry perfume, a beard scratching her upper thighs . They coalesce into a face, a laugh, a name, before fading one by one. Licking her lips, Sarah presses her thumb into her mouth. Adds another finger, and then another; closes her eyes tighter, and tries to imagine the way Cal smelled the last time she saw him. 

Before, when she was just Sarah and he was just the mark, she’d been soft, pliant, a little more exotic than the cow-eyed girls at Sobeys but just as willing to let him come down her throat. But that wasn’t him either, was it? Last time, Sarah had fucked herself on Cal’s tongue, her thighs pressed against his cheeks, his fingers scrabbling for purchase against the headboard. She’d been dripping when she finally, finally sunk down onto him. His cock - small, but thick - slipped out a few times before finally she found the right angle. He’d laughed. She hadn’t. 

In her memory-dream, Cal’s expression reminds her of those old paintings Fe likes. Of the men supplicated beneath the hierodules, their mouths stuffed full of prayer. She had liked it, on that moonless night, but Sarah doesn’t want their worship anymore. She’s had her fill of men’s benediction.

She flips almost frantically through other faces, other mouths. She presses her hand against the back of her neck, against the thick muscle and the tangled hair. She tugs, almost too soft to hurt - there’s Art, hesitant even as he forces her head back. He’d be like that, she thinks (why can’t she stop thinking), willing to give her what she… wants? What she asks for, at least. But she doesn’t want what she _wants_ , she wants-

Wants Paul, who bit down hard but not enough to bruise- Wants Delphine, who she’s heard choke so, so sweetly on a name that could have been hers- Wants Vic, who knew her skin inch by inch, who loved her just enough to ruin it-

Wants sharp red lips, like a slash across her throat. 

Her jeans are finally, finally thumbed open. Sarah shoves them down, gets a thumb on her clitoris, and two wet fingers inside herself. She clenches down involuntarily, lets out a cry, too. In the empty room it’s gunfire. Without a thought her hand drops down to her throat: a child’s solution. Petulant, her pulse speeds up. So do her fingers.

The light’s shifted, casting half the room in gray shadows. If she lets her vision go double, she can almost see another hand thrusting in and out of her, with just the right angle to make her toes curl. If she lets her mind go blank, she can almost imagine another palm pushing down into her jugular, with just the right pressure to make her heart rate spike. 

“Are the rest of you this pathetic?” 

Rachel sounds bored. Rachel always sounds bored, in the flesh, in Sarah’s memory, in this silent, empty room. Even when she laughs - when Sarah’s eyes close tighter, when she struggles to get away before realizing that just makes Rachel push down _harder_ \- even when she laughs, she sounds like she’s doing taxes in her head. She probably is. Sarah is just another checkbox, another task for the-out pile before the day is done. Kill her sisters, salt the earth, choke out Sarah Manning into shuddering and shameful orgasm. _Hold my calls, Simon, I’m going to lunch- No, I don’t expect it will take long._ Sarah laugh-stutter-chokes, can’t really tell if it’s real or not. Rachel’s expression doesn’t change. It wouldn’t, though.

Rachel - Sarah - Rachel grinds her thumb down against Sarah’s clit, and the burn is too much, too much. Rachel hikes up her skirt (the heavy white one with the slit up the slide, makes her look like a ghost on the fucking moors with a Glasgow smile) and sits down heavy on Sarah’s thighs, holding her firmly in place. Like she could run. Like she would run. (The distinction is, somehow, important.) 

Rachel holds her still.

“Poor Sarah.” Rachel moves her hips in time with her fingers, each roll accompanied by a thrust deep inside. Sarah almost _groans_ at the thought of Rachel buried in her, filling her, her body, coming so deep inside Sarah could scrub for years and still never be free of her DNA. 

“Poor, pathetic Sarah,” she continues. The way she traces her thumb against Sarah’s pulse point is almost gentle, until it isn’t. She’s figured out the rhythm quick, so that every time her fingers withdraw her grip on Sarah’s throat tightens, a push and pull of pleasure-pain that’s got Sarah so close, never close enough. From Rachel’s look, she knows it.

Sarah wants to just. Take it. Wants to let her body be stripped for parts until she’s strewn across the floor, a collection of limbs and bone no one could ever have a hope of reconstructing into _Sarah Manning_. Wants to let Rachel sell her for parts, or mount her femur on the wall, or string a wire through her spine and set her on her knee, tugging Sarah’s jaw open and shut with such a passable impression you would never guess those aren’t Sarah’s eyes looking out beyond the audience. 

Rachel would never, she knows, because Rachel would never dream of giving Sarah anything she wants. 

Sarah can dream it, though, and so Rachel’s fingers are gone and her tongue is _there_ , hitting Sarah with just the right amount of force that she has to wonder if they’re identical in this way, too. Her hands twitch towards Rachel’s hair, but even now she isn’t brave enough to cross that line (poor pathetic Sarah). She contents herself with the bruises Rachel’s left at her throat, because they _will_ bruise, now. Yellow and black, a necklace just for her. 

Rachel is coming to pick up Kira tomorrow. Rachel will see her neck. Maybe, somehow, Rachel will know. 

When Rachel raises her head, her lips are smeared and shiny. “We taste the same,” she says, and smiles. 

Sarah comes with a shout, although, no, it was just a sigh. Her fingers are still buried deep inside, and she shudders as she withdraws them, the aftershocks turning her body raw. She lifts her fingers to her lips, and sucks them down. Tastes herself. Tastes-

There are black dots dancing in her vision. There are black dots dancing in the moonlight. There are no hands around her throat, but it’s still hard to breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> i finished orphan black last week and uh 
> 
> come chat or chastise me at chav.tumblr.com.


End file.
